


The Backwater Gospel

by barber_shop_quintet



Category: Backwater Gospel
Genre: Death, Just the good ol' fashioned backwater life, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 21:15:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7907890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barber_shop_quintet/pseuds/barber_shop_quintet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As long as anyone can remember, the coming of The Undertaker has meant the coming of death. Until one day the grim promise fails and tension builds as the God fearing townsfolk of Backwater wait for someone to die.</p><p> A  write up of the 2011 bachelor film project from The Animation Workshop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Backwater Gospel

Backwater Gospel

The town of backwater lay in the barren grave of the desert. With no souls for miles surrounding the town, the desert's empty sounds resonated for miles. So everyone could always hear the sounds of the undertaker.

The first sounds were the crows. Their morose cries rang through the dry air, ringing harshly in the ears of all who heard them approach. Always foretelling the presence of death and of the being that came with it. The second sound was the tin wheels of the undertakers bicycle, the rocks flying under wheel and hitting the spokes, as it traveled effortlessly through the flat landscape. The third sound was a curious one, for no one had ever heard it personally. This sound fell on ears that could no longer hear, and over bodies that would no long fear it. The soft zip of the undertakers tape as it kneeled over whatever lost soul it had found, and measured it for the coffin, and the grave.

No one dared be close when the undertaker came near. At the first crows caw, the people would steel away into their homes until the last dark bird had left. This was the way of the town. And no one ever sought to change it. 

The town itself was a solemn place. Short, thin, buildings, offering no protection from the dust or the heat, all facing towards the well in the center of town. (The people held their breath each time a living soul went to the well, waiting for the day when it was found to be dry, and the people would have to leave and face the burning emptiness that waited for them.)  
The tallest point in the town was the church. A solemn, looming figure, it looked over the people from the outskirts with power and judgement. Everyone in town melded their beliefs to appease the church, everyone save one. This was an issue, for while the church was a hostile building, the reverend was even more so. He spoke of hellfire and blasphemy so furiously, one could not help but believe him. This was often the case in the church. And while most bowed to the reverends teachings and sermons, the agnostic (a poor beggar, who spoke more with his guitar than with speech) refused to join. The reverend loathed the non-believer. And everyday from his perch on the doorstep of the chapel as the bells rang, he would look down upon the beggar with scorn and enmity. 

On this particular day, the reverend once more sought to enlighten the townspeople on the wicked ways of their outlier. 

“One bad apple!” He cried from the altar.  
“That’s all it takes! One bad apple, and the whole barrel is spoiled! Do you want to save that barrel?!” The churchgoers whispered their answer quietly: “Yes, reverend.”  
“Then throw out that apple! Throw it away!” 

The congregation was so focused, so entranced by the reverends words, that they did not hear the first cries of the shadowy birds. The first crow landed next to the beggar outside, who regarded it with horrified anticipation. 

“But if you fail to destroy that apple…” The reverend continued inside the church, “Who will carry the blame? It is said that in the city of Shechem, every man was punished for the sins of one man!” 

The captive audience grew still

“And the punishment was…” as still and silent as the room had been, it somehow grew quieter now. Every member of the church, every townsman that gathered there held their breath, as they waited for the blow the reverend would surely deliver. 

“The punishment was..death.” 

No one spoke, no one moved, no one even dared to breath. 

Suddenly a harsh bang resonated throughout the church, reanimating the people held captive inside. It was the beggar. He beat on the glass feverishly, grinning sadistically through one of the tall windows as he shared his news: 

“The undertaker’s coming…” he said tauntingly. 

The spell the reverend had cast broke, and with the unity of a single soul, the entire population stood, and hurried for the doors. 

The reverend cried out feebly, hoping to regain the attention he had commanded, mere seconds ago: “Wait! My children! Stay, stay with me!”  
Even the bellringer, a devoted man, powerful enough sway the iron clad bells, was not strong enough to stay unprotected in the church. He turned, muttered “I’m sorry Father”, and swiftly ran down the chapel steps. One by one the townspeople retreated to their homes, the doors swinging shut, just as the second sound reverberated in the air. The sound of rocks hitting the metal spokes came from a distance, but it was close enough, that not a single soul in the town, not the reverend, nor the beggar could hear it without a cold chill running down their spine. 

The reverend turned suddenly towards the window, where the beggar continued to grin. 

“That bible’s not gonna help you now father” he began to sing: 

“That old bible, speaks of angels,  
doing service unto the lord.  
The undertaker knows no master,  
he drinks from any cup poured.  
Just as banshees wail their warnings  
that someone that same day will die,  
the Undertaker states the same  
and I'll be goddamned if he tells a lie” 

The reverend saw red. He threw his bible down upon the podium, and with the most dignity he could muster, strode forward to the doors, shutting the church to outside. The last of the house doors shut as the undertaker crossed the threshold into the terrified town. The people peered through their boarded up windows, and through the cracks under the door hoping to see some lost soul, some poor corpse for the undertaker to take. But no body was there to greet the undertaker. It wheeled into town, the shadows of the sun through the dust casting long shadows onto the buildings it passed. Long black wings seemed to stretch endlessly on behind the being on the bicycle. At last it stopped in the center of town. It got down from it’s silver steed, and walked with it to the bench that sat in front of the well, facing the church. And there it waited. But who did it wait for? Who had it come to take? These questions were whispers among the townsfolk as they watched from their homes. 

And so they waited. And the seconds turned to minutes, and the minutes changed to hours, and the hours bled to days. The townsfolk didn’t dare leave their homes, not till the undertaker had taken it’s soul and left. But when one looked through the cracks in the wood, it was still there. Waiting…

The people were restless, seven days of pacing anxiously, barely able to eat or sleep for fear of being the one to choke, or to simply slip away. 

On the seventh day, the church bells rang. The reverend strained to have them be heard over the now deafening crows. And sure enough, they were heard. The first to go was the bellringer, a devoted man, who was so devoted hat he had a heavy oak cross in his own home, he stepped through his door. He bore his cross on his shoulder, giving him strength, so he thought, to walk to the church at the edge of town. One by one, the townspeople followed. Never looking at the undertaker, they moved swiftly and silent. They had long since stopped speaking, fearing too much to breath even a sigh in the presence of the figure who sat at the well in the center of town. The beggar did not move from his spot. He stayed next to his old broken down car, and plucked away on his old guitar. Afraid, yet not willing to let the undertaker stop him from playing. 

Inside the church, a storm brewed. 

“The lord is testing us people! For seven days, we have been tormented! Because that son of perdition, refuses to fear the lord!” At that he pointed towards the town, towards where the beggar sat. “How long must we suffer from his wicked ways?!” The crowd wailed, their desperate cries and harsh breaths spurring the reverend on. “The lord wants us to destroy the bad apple! And with his sword in my hands…” He held up his thick solid bible, “I say the blasphemer, will be STONED!” 

The congregation roared triumphant, they surged forward straining for the doors. The reverends words echoing in their mind. The murmurs of agreement grew louder till the hoard matched the harsh sound of the crow’s screeches. “Give it blood, stone the blasphemer. Give it blood, stone the blasphemer. Give it blood, STONE THE BLASPHEMER!” 

They burst into the street running towards where the beggar sat quietly. He heard the thunderous noise of their feet, running towards the town from he church, and he heard the cries they repeated over and over. 

For a brief moment, the beggar thought that they might be rallying against the undertaker, to somehow free themselves from it’s ever tightening grip. But as the mob grew closer, their words grew clearer. They were not calling out to be freed from fear but to appease it. They wanted blood, they wanted a sacrifice, they wanted him. 

He leapt up, straining to not fall over in terror. He could hear them clearly now. “STONE THE BLASPHEMER STONE THE BLASPHEMER STONE THE BLASPHEMER!” He ran forward trying to get nowhere but away from the mob. He ran as hard as he could…but then he felt the ground slip from under him. He landed with a heavy grunt, struggling to get his breath and his footing in the hard, dusty street. But as he turned to try and stand, he found the towns eyes of judgement upon him. He lay on the ground helpless, pleading, but his cries fell on deaf ears. 

The reverend approached slowly. “Let he who is without sin,” he said “cast the first stone.” And the mob raised their arms, and began to throw the stones. Each townsperson threw their stone, all except the bellringer, a devoted man, who carried a heavy cross to dedicate himself with. And it was with this cross in his hands, he raised his arms. The cross swung down, it’s solid weight colliding with the earth, and the flesh. And the beggar was still.

A silence settled over the mob. One by one they raised their eyes from the blood stained oak of the bellringer’s cross, to meet the eyes of the undertaker. 

It said nothing, nor did it make any movement to get up, or to approach the blasphemous man that lay silently in the dust. 

The townspeople started to whisper, confused as to why their noble devotion had not swayed the creature in front of him. They did not even notice the black clouds moving above them, and it was only when the first drop fell, did they come to a simultaneous decision.

If the bad apple wasn’t the beggar, then it had to be…one of them. 

As the first flash of lightning struck, a voice cried out: 

“WELL IT SURE AS HELL ISN’T GONNA BE ME!” 

And as the echo thunder rumbled, the man, who had been a farmer before, struck. 

They all carried tools, ones to protect themselves, shovels, rakes, hoes. Now they turned on each other. Each turned to their neighbor with one goal in mind: Kill the bad apple. 

The reverend watched with horror. This was chaos. He had to escape, he carried with him his bible, and now for the first time he opened it. The hollowed out pages, held a pistol. The sword of god. He ran through the carnage, watching friends and families alike tear each other apart with vicious dedication. He looked forward and met the eyes of the undertaker. He raised his pistol and pointed it between the eyes of the being. With his finger on the trigger he heard a cry from behind him. He turned, and saw the bellringer, a crazed man, with a heavy oak cross in hand, stained with the blood of the martyr raised above his head. The reverend raised the gun to the crazed man, and shot. The bellringer stopped. And then with his last breath, heaved the cross at the Reverend, as blood began to stain his shirt. 

The reverend was frozen, he saw the cross, it’s heavy wooden body sail through the air, illuminated by the storm around them. In it’s last moments aloft the reverend saw it reflecting the light which shown from the storm above. Not a clear light, but a burning fire that illuminated the red cross as it met it’s mark. 

And when the storm clouds cleared, all who had once been members of backwater, churchgoing or not, were dead. 

And the undertaker stood. And the zip of his tape was heard by none.


End file.
